


The Top 16

by sinnermon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, LOTS OF BAD STUFF GOIN ON, Multi, overwatch is an MMORPG, there are prob more characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-18 18:28:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12393693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnermon/pseuds/sinnermon
Summary: The top 16 Overwatch players from the D.C-Maryland-Virginia area are all a part of a specialized chatroom, in which they discuss their separate, but intertwined lives.





	1. The Nurse's Office

**Author's Note:**

> COMMENTS > KUDOS!!!! there was so much support for the last version, and i wanna keep that up!!!!!!! lets be positive and also a lil critical bc this is a hot mess and i want feedback!!
> 
> \--
> 
> WELCOME BACK!!!!
> 
> i think this chapter is half decent idk let me know what you think!!!

Hana hates gym. Satya hates gym. Everybody hates gym except for the juniors, pumped up by their first taste of being top-dog.

A freckled one lobs a dodgeball in the direction of another freshman, and Hana considers being a martyr for a moment. Instead, she wanders to the edge of the court, spotting Satya Vaswani sitting primly on the bleachers, book open in her lap. On the first day, she had told Coach Wilhelm that she had injured herself playing tennis over the summer, and thus, couldn’t participate. Gym is the only class she still takes at the high school, but Satya uses it as an opportunity to do her college work- apparently a hell of a lot of reading.

Today, she’s still working at _What We Owe To Each Other_. It’s a thick book, but Satya is a voracious reader. _Beyond Good and Evil_ had gone by in a matter of days, though less massive than this one. Still, it should pose no challenge, and yet it does.

Poised to throw another ball over the line, the junior scans for her targets. Hana returns her gaze to her, and gives a cheery little wave. She lets out a boisterous laugh, and hurls the ball over, letting it hit Hana’s shins squarely.

Giving another wave, Hana retreats to the bleachers, plopping herself down beside Satya. She peers over her shoulder, noting that she’s barely reached page fifty-seven.

“We’ve never spoken before,” Satya says, venom practically spilling from her mouth.

“No.” Hana shakes her head, “But I’m Hana. I’m new. You’re Satya, right?”

Satya preens, refusing to give an answer. Hana ducks down, trying to read the cover of her book. It looks like the ugly modern art hanging in the hallway of her aunt’s apartment.

“Is this a romance novel?” Hana asks. She points accusatorially at the front page, going on to explain, “It sounds like a sexy romance novel.”

“This is about ethics,” Satya refutes, a bit flustered. “More specifically, it regards contractualism.”

Hana shrugs cluelessly, giving Satya reason to sigh. 

“Contractualism is a complicated philosophy- one that I don’t entirely understand myself,” She admits, and gives the cover another look. “Ethics are confusing.”

“Isn’t everything confusing?” Hana asks, “That’s a philosophy, isn’t it?”

“I’m no expert, but I’d like to say no.”

Across the gym, the junior winds up again, this time smacking a freshman in the face. It earns the blow of the whistle, sending them both off to the sides. Wiping her face of sweat, the junior comes up to Satya, waving pleasantly. Satya doesn’t return the gesture at first, only gives her book a wary glance, then gives a small wave in return.

“Hello, Fareeha,” She begins, sounding shockingly pleasant. It disappears quickly as she spits, “Done being a barbarian?”

Fareeha rolls her eyes, and comes to sit on the bleachers. Like most of the more athletic juniors, she’s panting, having worn herself down all too easily. Hana does the bare minimum, and hopes she’s never as absorbed as the upperclassman.

“Not yet.” Fareeha responds, cracking her knuckles to expunge nervous energy, “Just taking a break. Why don’t you join? Bet you wouldn’t think it’s so barbaric, then.”

“It’s uncouth.”

“You’re uncouth.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“You’re right- I don’t.”

Satya slams her book shut with a huff, and goes to shove it in her pack. As she rises, she slings it over her shoulder and gives the pair on the bleachers an appraising glare. Fareeha blows a coy kiss, and Satya pretends to gag as she stalks away. Hana turns her gaze to Fareeha, who can’t tear her eyes from Satya, storming up to Coach Wilhelm.

“She’s pretty,” Fareeha muses, putting her chin in her hand.

“And you’re an asshole.” Hana counters.

“Fuck off.”

 

Hana is happy to fuck off, telling Coach Wilhelm she needs to go to the nurse’s office, not naming a specific cause. Asking her to wish his wife a good day, the old man lets her go.

She likes Coach Wilhelm. He’s married to the school nurse, with their two children running amok as a senior and a junior. Between the two of the them, he can barely keep up with the hectic pace of his class, letting the grades run wild as they please.

Coach Wilhelm’s wife is as sweet as him, though less puppy dog-like in terms of her demeanor. Where her husband is loud and exuberant, Nurse Amari invites more calm into her office. She always has a candle burning on the table, a mug of tea between her slender fingers.

Today, it’s chai- homemade. Hana can smell it as she walks in, thermos tucked under one arm, laptop under the other. She clutches her spoon, tip-toeing in.

“Good afternoon,” The nurse says, holding up a weathered palm in greeting. “Are we taking our lunch date a bit early today?”

Nodding, Hana seats herself on one of the cots. “My dad made homemade chicken noodle. Gym always makes me hungry, and I couldn’t stop thinking of this.”

Smiling warmly, Nurse Amari pulls a Tupperware from her bag. Cracking it open, the scent of spice erupts throughout the office, and she sighs contentedly. “I convinced my husband to cook up some curry last night. Tastes like my mother’s.”

“Curry’s pretty good,” Hana agrees, unscrewing the top to her thermos. She cracks open her laptop in front of her, giving the screen a moment to wake up. “I think it’s sort of universal. Everybody eats curry, don’t they?”

Considering it, the nurse hums. She taps her fork against the plastic, eyeing the clock with some sort of suspicion. Hana stares up at it as well, but finds 12:15 to be no more offensive than 12:14. Nurse Amari digs the prongs of her fork into the curry-covered beef, shoving the bite into her mouth.

“I’m expecting Amélie,” She explains, breaking etiquette rules. “She usually doesn’t last this long through gym.”

Hana nods, chewing slowly on a cube of chicken. She’s heard enough of Amélie to know there’s nothing good about her crashing her long-standing lunch with Nurse Amari. Luckily enough, she’s never come into direct contact with the notorious ice queen of their school. Today, her luck may very well run out.

“Hm,” The nurse shrugs, and prepares another forkful of rice and curry. “She must be getting better. Or at least, I’d hope so.”

Turning her attention to her laptop, Hana urgently opens her Discord. A litany of messages sit in her notifications, and she feels antsy as the logo whirls about. She shifts, and the display orients itself, working with great difficulty to accurately represent the sheer volume of messages she has.

 

_Pharah: if you had to choose between $10,000 and never touching anybody’s butt ever again what would you choose_

_tracerr: how about accidents_

_Pharah: no accidents_

_Pharah: no butts_

_Symmetra: I would gladly take the money. Butts are pointless._

_Pharah: haha you said butts_

_Mercy: I agree with Symmetra, why wouldn’t you take the money?? Boobs exist._

_Pharah: boobs do, but they’re not butts_

_Pharah: sym are you a boob or butt woman_

_Symmetra: I prefer personality._

_Mercy: I hate engaging in this conversation._

_Pharah: nobody asked you to, did they_

_Dva: this is what i miss out on while i’m at school :((_

_Pharah: aww Dva’s back_

_Dva: not for long it’s just lunchtiiiiiiiiiime_

_Pharah: i’m so hungry i want it to be lunch_

_Symmetra: Just eat food._

_Pharah: have you ever attended a day of school in your life_

 

“Oh!” Nurse Amari stands suddenly from her desk, coming to meet Amélie at the door. 

Her hair hangs in her face, pale but flush. She lurches forward, and the nurse guides her to the other cot, stealing her from her cronies supporting her. Amélie lies back, and the paper crinkles pleasantly. Taking a deep inhale, she stutters and begins to cough drily.

Nurse Amari rushes to collect water, yanking her stethoscope from around her neck. On the other cot, Amélie sits herself up, gasping like a fish dragged up to land. She clutches the soft cashmere of her sweater, trying to breathe more evenly. It fails, and she rakes her nails through her hair as she wheezes.

The nurse returns with a paper cup of water, placing her palm between Amélie’s shoulder blades as she urges her to drink. Hana can’t help but stare as Amélie thrashes wildly at the touch, spit trailing down her chin. Nurse Amari sets the cup aside, forcing Amélie’s arms to her sides.

“Amélie,” She whispers, “Amélie, calm down. Breathe in, remember? And then, you’ll just breathe out- how you always do?”

It seems Amélie is less than keen on following directions, and flounders instead. Her body stops moving, and her rasping breaths become more controlled as she flops. Nurse Amari nods, encouraging her to sit carefully. Like she’s in a trance, Amélie follows, her loud, sucking breaths occupying every inch of the room.

“I’m going to check your heart, alright?” Nurse Amari asks, readying her stethoscope.

Amélie turns her head, looking rather delirious. She catches Hana’s eyes, and immediately, the latter breaks the eye contact. 

 

_Dva: i feel like i just looked into the soul of a murdered victorian noblewoman_

_Symmetra: Oddly specific._

_Pharah: i feel it tho_

_Dva: i’m being haunted_

_Pharah: aren’t we all_

 

Hana leaves before Amélie’s parents can come. She scampers up the stairs, hearing lunchroom chatter down in the cafeteria, and rushes to her locker. The vice principal eyes her disdainfully, but she ducks her head and waves politely.

“Where are you going?” He says, and Hana freezes on the landing.

Vice Principal Reyes is a hardass, despite the rumors that he’s a secret softie. In her two and a half weeks at school, Hana has come to realize that there’s nothing more terrifying than his voice booming down the all after a delinquent. Unlike the more Pillsbury Dough Boy-like Principal, Reyes has never had to run after a student. He commands them.

“To my locker,” Hana’s voice quivers.

“It’s lunch. You go back to the cafeteria.”

“But I need to study for Mr. Lindholm’s class,” She whines. “I forgot all my stuff in my locker.”

“Should’ve studied last night.”

Realizing there’s no victory in an argument, Hana slinks back down the stairs, feeling Reyes’ eyes burning holes in the back of her neck. She rubs at the spot irritably, and continues down into the cafeteria, dread pooling in her stomach. The teachers on lunch duty block the way to the music room and the elevators behind it, and the only open door is to the courtyard. 

Feeling somewhat resigned, Hana shoulders open the lunchroom doors, slipping past a pack of irritated seniors. She checks out the freshman tables, seeing Reese’s packaging being ripped open, and continuing on her way to the nut-free table, positioned in the dreaded back corner of the room. A vent blasts cold air down her t-shirt, and she shivers as she clutches her lukewarm thermos.

The sole occupant of the nut-free table, Hana sets her laptop where a friend might sit instead. She taps out a command on the keyboard, and a game window pops up.

 

_Dva: anyone wanna play a round?? :0_

_Pharah: im @ skool followin the rools_

_Symmetra: I’ll play with you, D.Va. My lab is rather slow today._

_Mercy: If I wasn’t drowning in work, I’d be happy to. :^(_

_tracerr: i’ll join_

_Dva: one more person and we can do doubles!!_

_chrome: I WANNA PLAY_

_Symmetra: Chrome can be on Tracer’s team. That seems fair._

_tracerr: how??????_

_tracerr: chrome and i both play offense_

_Symmetra: Learn something new._

_Dva: i’ll start the game_

_Dva: get ready!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_


	2. Red Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS > KUDOS !!!!!!!!!! i love seeing what you all have to say!!
> 
> \--
> 
> should i start doing writing commissions? or redo my patreon??

A train rushes behind Satya’s back, fluttering the pages of her book. She huffs irritatedly, smoothing out the edges and returning her attention to the lines of text. Each letter merges with the next in line, and she feels lost as she swims through a sea of syllables. Taking a well-needed break, Satya looks up at the board displaying arrivals, pouting as her ride to class is delayed a good five minutes.

Despite learning early in life to never trust public transportation, Satya always fell into the same trap. It was less expensive and time-consuming than getting her license and a car, and less embarrassing than asking her parents to drop her off. What college student still needed rides from their parents?

Satya had always been well-acquainted with being plucked out of a crowd. Ever since sixth grade, she’d been shuttling to a different building for every class except for gym. Her first day of high school had been spent convincing her teachers that she was in the proper building, and no, she didn’t need a refresher course.

By that point, Satya had become somewhat of an Icarus. It was isolating, realizing that as her friends crossed the threshold into high school as freshman, she had known the layout for years. On her transcript, she was still listed as a freshman- thanks to her gym class- but she sat amongst the juniors as though she truly belonged.

Maybe she had. Maybe Satya was bitter at being robbed of a real childhood.

The train comes rolling lazily up to the platform, lights at the edge flickering wildly to announce it’s arrival. Satya tucks her bookmark in, and hefts her pack from the floor. It’s heavy with textbooks and leftover lab work from the weekend, but she bore the weight as a badge of pride. Her mother had always said, the heavier the bag, the heavier the mind.

It was a stupid analogy.

Like all public transportation, the train smells of pee. Satya crinkles her nose, and chooses a seat facing forward, jamming her earbuds in and resting her head against the window.

 

Satya wakes up in Pentagon City, all the way across the Potomac. The doors close before she can rush off and try to reorient herself, and when she checks the time, Satya sees a notification from her professor, telling her off for missing class. Without a clue as to the pain she’s in, the train chugs onto Crystal City, and Satya tries her best to take in the sights of Arlington.

In the third grade, before the prodigal status and before it all had gone to shit, Satya’s class had gone to Arlington. They had taken the Metro then, for the first time. Satya was bewildered as to how it all worked, but didn’t object to the mystical system. Rather, she fell in love with it, and pledged to convince her parents to make time for a weekly trip down the red line.

Now, Satya wants to get off. Her stomach twists in anxious knots, and she’s grateful for the unexpectedly short distance between the Pentagon and Crystal Cities. Pulling out her phone, Satya is pushed onto the platform by anxious commuters. She tucks herself in a small corner, and studies the Metro’s maps, trying to solve the mystery of the quickest way home.

Crystal City to Foggy Bottom, and a healthy walk back to campus. Satya grumbles somewhat indignantly, checking the board for arrival times. Per usual, the blue line is entirely backed up. If she really wants, she can take the yellow line up to Gallery Place, then hop on a red train to Metro Center, and get on a blue all the way down to Foggy Bottom. Checking the time, Satya’s plan is ruined, with not enough time to spare for the complex route to be back in time for lab.

Still, she’d be in Georgetown with enough time to make it to her babysitting job. It wasn’t like her professor would judge her for her first absence.

 

Mrs. Bianchi lives down the street from Satya, in a house so imposing and large it shocked the whole neighborhood when they learned she only had one child. Olivia barely takes up a room in the house, but she keeps the mansion anyways. Satya loves it. Her house is large and imposing as well, but not so grand and gorgeous as Mrs. Binachi’s.

Climbing the steps, Satya adjusts her bag on her back, and rapidly composes an email on her phone. She begs for forgiveness from her professor, brow quirking as a notification comes at the top of her screen.

 

Pharah: hey who wants to do a full group game

 

Satya knocks at the door, then taps the banner.

 

Pharah: hey who wants to do a full group game

Dva: uMMMMMMM sure

Mercy: I just got out of school, but maybe later tonight?

snowball: :D i wanna!!! let’s do it tonight!!

Pharah: how about 7???

Symmetra: I won’t be home until 7:30.

 

Olivia opens the door, standing in the frame with her usual crooked grin. Pocketing her phone, Satya gives her charge a small smile in response. She comes into the foyer, slipping her shoes off while Olivia shuts the door quietly as she can- which isn’t saying much for Olivia. With her ears still ringing, Satya takes stock of the home.

Even though Mrs. Bianchi doesn’t care either way, Satya likes to do a bit of tidying while she’s over. At fourteen years old, Olivia is more than capable of taking care of herself, and it gives Satya little to do aside from homework. She can finish it in record time, giving her almost a full hour of lazing around before Mrs. Bianchi comes through the door, guns blazing and ready to rumble with Olivia.

“What do you have for homework today?” Satya asks as Olivia leaps into the chaise lounge. She winces as the wood creaks, knowing the old thing can’t hold up from much more of the girl’s abuse.

“Just math and science,” Waving a hand, Olivia searches for the remote, “easy stuff.”

“No English?”

“I did it in class.”

“Can I see it?”

Grumbling, Olivia hops off the couch, and flies up the stairs. One of these days, if she might be so willing, Satya would take her to the park, see if she could get all of Olivia’s extra energy out. So far, her efforts have been less than successful.

There’s a clatter from upstairs, leading Satya to cringe again. Not even a minute later, and Olivia comes bounding back down the stairs with her book bag in hand. She tosses it to the end of the lounge, before leaping up again. Like a raccoon, she digs through her backpack, producing a flurry of loose and crumbled papers, along with assorted things inevitably buried deep in the bottom of her bag.

“Olivia,” Satya gasps, seizing up papers, “this is atrocious. You need folders, or a binder, or a pencil case- or all three! Come on, go get a coat, we can either go to CVS or take the trip out to Target.”

“No, I don’t!” Olivia snaps. She snatches the sheets from Satya, stuffing them back in her bag. “I’m organized. It’s my own system, it really works!”

“I’ll let you get candy if you get your coat on.”

 

“It’s my own system,” Olivia mumbles, swinging her legs as they sit on the train.

Satya shushes her, listening intently to the announcement that they’re to arrive at L’Enfant Plaza next. She breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and features for Olivia continue. Likely out of spite, she keeps her mouth shut, pointedly glaring out the window. The train continues to chug along, bumping with the oddities in the tracks.

Light floods the tunnel as they approach the station, and Satya tugs gently on Olivia’s sleeve, getting her to rise. Olivia sulks as they drop out onto the platform, not even close to being enchanted with the hustle and bustle. Satya leads her along, getting her from train to train until they get on the red line to Wheaton, Satya practically dragging Olivia through the doors.

“This is for your own good.” Satya scolds. Olivia sits like a rag doll, trying her best to make it difficult for Satya to lead her around. When she doesn’t respond, Satya pulls her phone out of her pocket again.

 

Symmetra: Children are such little brats.

Mercy; But they’re kids, so they sort of get a free pass.

Symmetra: And I get a free pass to be annoyed.

Pharah: lmao have fun with that

Dva: i’m a kid!!!!! am i annoying!!!!!!!!

Symmetra: Yes.

 

She smirks at her response, giving a small look over to Olivia. Fiddling with the zipper on her jacket, her eyes slide over to give Satya a brief look, only to flutter away when she realizes she’s been caught. Olivia is harmless, Satya figures, just a bit irritating and stubborn.

As the train rises up from the tunnels, skating over the early evening landscape of Washington. They’re nearing the outskirts of the district, easily noticeable by the change in scenery. Olivia presses her face up against the window, seemingly forgetting her vow of silence. Her fingers leave grubby prints on the glass, and her breath creates a circle of fog.

“Have you never been past Gallery Place?” Satya asks, tugging gently on the back of Olivia’s jacket when she rises up onto her knees. “Sit on your heels, otherwise you’ll fall.”

Olivia silently obeys, watching the world go by in complete enchantment. All she manages to get out is a simple, “I like it.”

All of a sudden, Satya becomes acutely aware of the other passengers, staring at Olivia with pointed looks, as though she’s expected to rob the girl of her happiness. Setting her jaw firmly, Satya faces the sights with Olivia, realizing they look like a pair of tourists. Nonetheless, she smiles as they train pulls into the Rhode Island Avenue station and Olivia falls over into her lap when the car comes to a stop.

“I told you to sit on your heels.” Satya chides her, helping Olivia right herself.

“Is this the stop?” Olivia neglects the question. She gazes wildly at the door, looking ready to dart through the opening.

“No. I told you, when we get there, you’ll know. It’s the last stop on this line.”

Content with the answer, Olivia goes back to staring out the window, though she’s less captivated. The curiosity rises up in her, spilling out with her interrogation, “Where do the trains go when they’re done on the line? Do they go the opposite way back? Or do they have to do a big loop?”

“Let me look it up,” Satya says, opening her phone. A cursory search yields the results she’s looking for, and she answers Olivia, “They turn around.”

“You can’t turn a train around.” Olivia insists, shaking her head.

“Yes, you can. They walk to the other end of the train, and make it go the other way.”

“It can’t work that way. Your car can only go one way-.”

“Olivia, reverse.”

That seems to stump Olivia for the moment, but only for the moment. She pipes back up, “So they reverse all the way down the line? Mrs. Bianchi can barely reverse out of the driveway.”

“Why do you call her that?”

Again, the question gives Olivia pause, but her quick wit returns in time, “She’s not my mom. All she does is give me a bed, and a hard time.”

“She’s your foster mother,” Satya feels a bit out of line, but continues regardless. “You should show her a bit more respect. It’s a noble thing to take in a kid like you.”

Mood sufficiently soured, Olivia rolls her eyes and goes back to playing with her zippers. Even the world rolling past outside isn’t enough to bring her out of her bitterness, and Satya feels slightly embarrassed, too much so to apologize. She isn’t even sure that Olivia would appreciate it. If Olivia can do anything, it’s holding a grudge.

They sit in silence as the train rolls into the Wheaton station, and Satya pulls gently at Olivia’s sleeve once again. Olivia snatches her arm back, storming off the train with Satya trailing behind. Satya manages to catch up, leading Olivia onto the escalator.

“This is the biggest escalator on the East Coast,” Satya states.

“You’re the biggest bitch on the East Coast.” Olivia snaps, ultimately unimpressed with the factoid.

“I’m sorry,” Desperation bleeds into Satya’s voice, and she catches the small flash of sympathy on Olivia’s face. “You just should be more grateful, I think. Mrs. Bianchi is doing you a big service.”

“What kind of service?” Olivia spits, “What kind of kid is a kid like me?”

Stupefied, Satya stands with her hands clutching the railing for dear life. The escalator continues huffing and puffing, all too slow for Satya’s taste. If Olivia wouldn’t rag doll herself again, then she might climb the elevator, dragging her charge behind her. But her problem stands there, equally as lost and embroiled in her fury. Her only option is to confront it.

“I simply meant that you come with some baggage,” Satya speaks low, staring down the slope. “We all do, but you have... Issues. As a child, I was the same way. When my parents adopted me, I was quite unruly. I believe my parents did me a service, just as Mrs. Bianchi is doing for you. She provides you a roof over your head, and great patience to put up with you.”

Olivia huffs, refusing to look Satya in the eye. “She’s giving me back.”

“What?” Satya leans in closer, and Olivia shakes her head.

Gnashing her tear ducts with the heels of her hands, Olivia grumbles something, turning her back to Satya. The mechanical whirring of the escalator is put behind them as they step onto the tiles and begin to climb the stairs heading into the shopping center.

“There’s a food court here,” Satya says, giving Olivia an odd, sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder. “You like Chinese food, right?”

Olivia nods, and Satya leads her by the shoulder towards the food court.


	3. Valkyrie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS > KUDOS!! im back after a month long hiatus (accidental) sorry folks!! <3 <3 reading your comments really got me back into the writing groove!!!
> 
> \-------
> 
> i'm back and worse than ever. if there's spelling grammar mistakes, i wrote part of it on my phone that decides to autocorrect. so thats super exciting. 
> 
> thank you guys for sticking around!!

As a baby, Angelo had been fussy.

His crib was situated perfectly at the end of a young Angela’s bed, and she remembers, vividly, his midnight squealing. At the time, she thought it was the responsibility of a dutiful older sister to attempt to comfort him, letting him lie in her arms and wail his tiny heart out. She had also interpreted her failings as a soother as a failure as a sister, due to her fundamental misunderstanding of colic.

It had carried with her through life, she supposed. Always stepping in to comfort her baby brother, wrapping him up in the trappings of love and compassion, only to have taken an incorrect approach, and feel all the more bitter for the mistake. In the present moment, she wonders if this will be another one of those times.

Ever since the accident had occurred, Angelo had been sensitive. Sure, he was a fragile child, but after it all happened, he was like a porcelain doll. Angela approached him always with bubble wrap at the ready, trying to minimize the damage that would come inevitably. With her glasses perched daintily at the end of her nose, she surveys the kitten’s damaged limb, and sighs.

Should it die here, in the bed he’s constructed for it from blankets and sweaters, he’ll die with it. He’ll sob himself until he’s dry as the Sahara. Should it live here, in the bed constructed from fleeces and knits, he’ll live with it. He’ll fill himself with joy and pride. And Angela will sink, either way. She’ll waste too much time in her assessment, and the kitten will take a rattling last breath that will fill her with too much sorrow to bear. She’ll waste too much time getting attached, and they will both be devastated when the feline meets an inevitable demise, someday.

Early in life, Angela had learned not to get attached. Her family had a great poodle, one that was so gorgeous it could be a model for calendars, as her father said. It was perfectly trained, too, and they let the pet bounce and bound in the yard with wild abandon. They had never thought to get a fence. They had never thought that the poodle would spy a friend (or foe) across the street, and would bounce and bound right into the path of a two-ton truck. She had cried then, but not as much as Angelo had. It had been unfortunate, to see him laying up in bed, destroyed over the death of a dog.

When her parents had been mowed down by a driver unconscious to the lives of anybody else about him, she had truly internalized it then. There was no use crying over anybody.

“What do you think, Ange? Is he going to live?” Angelo demands, and he crawls over Angela’s shoulder to take a peek at the wounded kit.

“I don’t know,” She hisses, and shakes him off. He’s always been clingy as a koala, since his early days attached to their mother’s hip. Angelo never had a desire to walk, just to be carried and held. “I don’t know if it’s even worth trying to treat.”

Angelo gasps. He elbows Angela square in the ribs. She grunts, cradles the spot where she’s been assailed, then casts a glance down at the kitten. It hasn’t noticed her indifference to it’s plight. As Angela stares at the cat, chest heaving as it mewls weakly, she feels something stir beneath her own sternum, and it does the same shrug as she sighs.

“I’ll take it to the vet.” She says. Gingerly, she wraps the pathetic thing up in one of the many items of clothing Angelo has provided. Angela sets the kitten against her chest, using her thumb to stroke it’s tiny head, “You go finish your homework. You’ve had enough distractions tonight.”

“Ange!” Angelo cries, hands at the sides of his head, “You _have_ to let me go with! I found it- I can provide useful information!”

“We have cellphones,” Angela spits, “I can just text you.”

 

The veterinarian gives the kitten a glowing review. All she takes issue with, is it’s limp leg. With more care than Angela could ever muster, the vet wraps up the kit’s leg tightly, then wraps a cone around it’s golf ball-sized head, and swaddles it back up in the sweater. It cries out sweetly, and Angela sets her thumb on it’s head again.

As though the digit is too heavy for it to fight, the kitten seems to consider another yowl, but silences itself quickly enough. Carefully, Angela nestles it underneath her fleece. It sets it’s head against the curve of her clavicle, and she maneuvers gently into the reception area.

“Handsome little boy you have there,” The woman behind the desk says. “Does he have a name?”

Angela considers it, and runs her thumb down the kitten’s neck. It purrs meekly. She smiles gently at it, then runs mentally though her German vocabulary. Most are the pet names of her past, others units of language used strictly for functionality. She’d never saddle the cat with such a cruel name as _toilette_ or _bleistift._

“Not yet.” She says. The kitten takes great offense to this, and mewls with indignation. Again, Angela places her thumb over it’s head.

The receptionist chuckles, passing over the bill. Angela feels a sharp pang in her chest at the triple-digit number, but forks over her card regardless. Mentally, she thinks of people at work who’d be happy to fork over their shifts. A sour feeling pools in her gut, but is quickly evaporated when she hears the squeaking of the kitten beneath her hand.

“Hush,” She orders as they retreat from the office.

It seems to take this orders with even more righteous anger, howling as the pair approach the bus stop.

“Cats aren’t allowed on the bus. If you’re not quiet, then we have to walk home.” Angela gives a gentle tap to the kitten’s nose, and it silences itself.

A rumbling old bus approaches the sidewalk with care. Once the kitten catches sight of it, it digs tiny nails into Angela’s shirt, trying to scramble up her chest. She forces it back down, unhooks it’s talons, and steps onto the bus happily. It’s late in the day, but just before the evening rush home. Thus, the bus is empty enough that she can settle herself in the back of the bus with nobody to occupy the seat and make it reek of their scent. Every bus rider has a distinct smell, and none are so pleasant.

She produces her phone, using the heel of her hand to keep the kitten from mewling.

 

_Mercy: My brother is absolutely ridiculous. He brought home a cat on his way home from school._

_Widowmaker: Cats are the only good thing about this world._

_Pharah: wee woo wee woo emo alert_

_Symmetra: What is the cat’s name?_

_Mercy: It doesn’t have one._

_Dva: CAN WE NAME IT_

_Mercy: No! You’d name it something dumb._

_Dva: you didn’t even hear the name_

_Mercy: What is it._

_Dva: valkyrie like ur class duh_

 

Pausing to assess the corked up cat, Angela smirks. It’s half-asleep, little head too big for it’s body, and it bobs with exhaustion. She maneuvers carefully, using the side of her thumb to stroke beneath its chin. The kitten purrs with some kind of glee in the rumble, then experimentally nips at Angela’s thumb. Baby teeth fail to do much, if any, damage, but she gives it a stern thumbing on the head in revenge.

Valkyrie. It’s a nice string of syllables to speak, equally as pleasant to let filter through her mind. The bus’ speakers announce they’re reaching their destination. With great care, Angela swaddles the cat into her fleece, and came to the front of the bus. The vehicle sways and bobs as it comes up to the station, and there’s a moment of silence.

The doors open with a loud whoosh, and it frightens the kitten enough for it to mewl. Angela stares nervously at the bus driver, who beckons her close. She thinks about running, but steps nervously towards him. Peeling back the sweater, she shows off the newly minted Valkyrie off to the driver. An apology sits at the tip of her tongue. The driver extends a hand, and Angela thinks he might swat at the poor thing.

His fingers scratch delicately at the cat’s pea-sized head, and they’re both happy. 

“You two have a nice day,” He tells Angela, who begins to disembark.

Angela calls back a thanks, then hurries down the street. The trees shudder with chill, but it’s not quite as awful as it’ll become in November. Instead, it’s a rather pleasant cold. It reminds Angela of her years in Switzerland, where herself and her accent were born from snow and sleet. Angelo hails from a quiet home somewhere off in the United Kingdom, brought to her parents as an infant. She remembers their first meeting, in the dead of December.

Both her parents begged her to be careful, but the social worker had no reservations as she passed the newborn off to his new sister. Angela had dropped him, naturally, but only onto the couch. Whenever Angelo acted poorly as a child, their parents shirked the blame off to Angela’s dropping him.

Anglo spent only a year in Switzerland. He spoke German with his parents, French with his sister, and the most fluent version of English in front of his friends. Academically, Angela was the golden child, but she could never have met the standard he set in English.

It was always Angelo who dragged home his friends, speaking in rhymes and riddles. He would spend hours chatting to them in what Angela knew to be English, but could not properly identify. When he needed her to get something for him and his friends, he would never ask in French, as he did when they were alone. He spoke in a brutal dialect, and didn’t slow down for her lack of comprehension. If they asked why she stood stupefied for several seconds, he said she was confused, and would approach to whisper the question again in French.

“You said you would do your homework!” Angela cries, as she kicks her sneakers off. They speak English at home now. Angelo’s French is too rusty, and he thinks German to be ugly.

Angelo looks like a deer in the headlights- one of Angela’s least favorite idioms- as he sprawls across the couch with the television flashing in front of him. His school supplies lie unused on the floor, and his backpack spills snacks and such. Setting Valkyrie on the couch to hobble around with the cone and the cast, Angela scoops up Angelo’s things, and dumps them over him. He shrieks, and Valkyrie yowls with him.

“Angela! I was getting to it!” He cries.

“Did you do your analysis?”

“No! I was-!”

“Did you do your English?”

“No-!”

“You’re slacking, Angelo!” She takes up a folder and whacks him sternly with it.

He yelps, shedding the papers as he squirms. Valkyrie wiggles it’s way up to his head, tugging at Angelo’s bleached hair with little kitten teeth. Gently as he can be, Angelo swats at the pet, but it returns with even more vigor.

“Get him, Valkyrie!” Angela cheers.

“You named without me?” Angelo stops, staring up at her with the saddest expression he can muster, “I wanted to name him Puddles.”

“That’s a stupid name, Angelo. Valkyrie, that’s cool.”

“Puddles is cute, though.”

Angela shakes her head pathetically. She removes the last of Angelo’s schoolwork off of him, and tosses it aside. Then, she perches at the other end of the sofa, and places Valkyrie between them. Content to sit and wobble, he lets out a pained mewl.

“We’ll let the cat decide.” Angela announces, then turns to Valkyrie and coos, “Come here, Valkyrie!”

On the other side, Angelo extends his arms and begs, “Here, Puddles! I found you, Puddles!”

Hesitantly, the cat rises, and toddles uncertainly right down the middle. Reaching the back of the couch, it takes a turn towards Angelo, before it’s cast becomes stuck in the cushions, and the kitten is sent tumbling and rolling back towards Angela.

“Valkyrie!” She announces, and lifts the kitten into her arms.

It purrs, settling up against her chest. Angela smirks at a defeated Angelo, and cozies up into the pillows with Valkyrie. Trudging off to finish his homework, Angelo leaves the pair be and sulks into his room.

“You’re such a good kitty,” Angela teases, tickling beneath Valkyrie’s chin. It leans into the touch, and she feels so silly as she cuddles and coos at the cat. The kitten is so warm and soft, it feels almost proper to embrace it.

The vibrations from it’s purrs sufficiently distract Angela from the buzzing in her pocket. It takes her until her text tone goes off for her to dig through her sweatshirt.

 

_1 Missed Call from Satya V._

_1 Message from Satya V._

 

Angela groans, and grabs out her phone. She taps on the message, and stares at it.

 

_[5:32PM] Satya V.: I unfortunately came down with a virus today, and was unable to attend lab time. I received a very pointed email, but do not understand what I have missed. Give me, please, the information, or tell me what we did._

 

Valkyrie slides down Angela’s front, and begins to examine the living room. Angela rapidly begins to typea calculated response.

 

_Just email the professor._

 

She slams the backspace, reconsidering her reply.

 

_Can’t you text literally anybody else in class? There are 30 people. 3-0. And you always pick me?_

 

It doesn’t seem acceptable enough for Satya. Angela spends her days haunted by the image of Satya Vaswani, crouching over her projects and snapping at anybody who dares to step within her carefully created bubble.

 

_Aren’t you supposed to be a prodigy? Figure it out._

 

None of it feels warranted as her thumb hovers over the little blue arrow. It’s all too mean, too crass, too much for the seventeen year old who sits by herself in the corner of the lab with tools she won’t let anybody borrow.

 

_[5:36PM] Satya V.: Are you sleeping at this time of day? Why haven’t you replied._

 

The itch for ugliness rises up in her again, and she begins to tap out a brand new, foaming at the mouth response just as Angelo comes crashing in. He holds his folder high above his head, a piece of paper fluttering over the top of it.

“I did it! I did my analysis!” He announces, and comes to sit heavily beside Angela.

Underneath the couch, Valkyrie’s head pops up, and begins to lick Angelo’s ankle. He pays no mind, and simply delivers a small pat to the kitten’s head.

Angela tosses her phone between them, and takes his work in her hands. Like the snoop he is, Angelo begins to study his sister’s conversation.

“Oh, is this Satya Vaswani?” He asks, flipping through the messages.

“Yes,” Angela responds. “All your work is incorrect, Angelo.”

“She’s in my gym class. She’s kind of a bitch.”

“Yes. Look, how did you get the correct answer?”

“Oh, she sent you something!”

Immediately, Angela repossesses her phone, staring at the text.

 

_[5:40PM] Satya V.: Did I say something inappropriate? Are you busy? Why haven’t you answered my message? If I’ve missed something, I want to get started._

 

Angela turns to stare at her brother, his hair in his eyes as he hunches over his paper. He scribbles down figures and calculations, and erases what he now knows to be wrong. He’s the same age as Satya, a bit taller than her, and with more weight to him. But he looks like her, here, with that look of painful concentration that indicates a mere child trying their best.

Satya is trying her best. Angela is trying her best. They’re all trying a different best, but it’s their best.

Gently, Angela taps out the reply, and expects nothing back. She expects no thanks, no deep expression of gratitude. Just the deep, internal satisfaction of Angela trying her best.

 

_[5:42PM] Sorry, Satya. I was helping my brother with his homework. We just did independent work, again in lab. Hope you feel better soon._


	4. Kiss to the Metacarpals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMENTS > KUDOS!! you guys had such an outpouring of support for the OG fic, and im really missing that love and support. thank you to all of you for reading and leaving kudos, but i like to visualize that support!!!!
> 
> \---
> 
> welcome to A Child of Multiple Divorce's Struggles to Compartmentalize Their Feelings and Their Pushing It Onto Fictional Characters :)
> 
> fr tho i always wondered how pharahs parent situation effected her as a child bc like. her mom obvi couldnt pay attention to her and we dont know what happened to her dad so whats gucci bruh whats the truth
> 
> \------
> 
> ** IF ANYONE WANTS A CHEAP WRITING COMMISSION **
> 
> i was just frauded out of a lot of money, my bank account is in the negatives, and i won't be paid until friday. my bank is working to contest the charges, but i'm not sure how long that'll take or if it'll work at all. as well, i have other savings goals, but im spending a lot of money on food and gas. if you want to a commission, please hit me up anywhere. my email is saatchis@hotmail.com (i use it only for writing business), skype is peppermintlattes (i use that for w/e), and my tumblr is soysaucehoe69 . thank you lovely folks <3

Ana Amari is a woman of myth. Even Fareeha is bewildered by the portrait of her mother presented to the public. She’s burnt through two husbands already, slowly wearing down the third like a wildfire to a candle wick. Two children under her belt, both shipped to different corners of the city, and the world, on different days- but little motherly inclination in her voice or actions. She survives in pockets of prose and poetry, well-read and spoken, but has blossomed in the military, and sticks it out as a school nurse. There are questions to be raised in every little thing that she does, and it stumps Fareeha as much as it would a stranger to her family.

“Your father wants you for either Thanksgiving,” Ana says, setting down her newspaper with a great sigh, “or Christmas. Even though, there’s no Thanksgiving in Canada.”

“Maybe he’s being generous.” Fareeha suggests, trying to be idle in her proposal but acknowledging there’s nothing casual in a conversation like this, “I think it’s a more than fair trade- giving me to him for a holiday he doesn’t celebrate, so that way you can have me for a holiday we don’t celebrate.”

There’s a moment of silence. Ana’s reading glasses are at the tip of her nose, even though there’s nothing to be read. Her nails rap at the tabletop, and she hums lightly. Finally, she drags her hand down the side of her face, and lets her chin rest in her cupped palm.

“What would you like for dinner?”

“How about eggplant parm?”

 

_Pharah: she’s done it again_

_Mercy: Who?_

_Pharah: the girl reading this_

_Pharah: jk my fucking MOM_

_mccree: Oh my god chill_

_Dva: how’s the demon ruler of hell doing_

_Pharah: idk she’s in one of her moods_

_mccree: Which you put her into_

_Pharah: she’s so fucking dramatic i didn’t do jack shit_

_sombra: where’s sym we need a judge judy_

_Widowmaker: I can judge._

_Pharah: NO_

_Pharah: go back to your fucking hole_

_sombra: tone it down_

_sombra: @SymmetricSymmetra where u @_

_Widowmaker: Am I no longer welcome?_

_Pharah: NO YOURE NOT_

_Pharah: bane of my fucking existence_

_sombra: TONE IT DOWN_

_Widowmaker: You’re, like, 5._

_sombra: i’m 11 so shut the fuck up_

_Symmetra: Sorry, I was grocery shopping. I see I’ve been @‘ed._

_Pharah: god you’re so uncool_

_sombra: oRDER IN THE COURT_

_Symmetra: Oh, we’re doing this again?_

_sombra: pharah please tell us what ur bitch ass mom did_

_Pharah: she won’t buy me a plane ticket to go to canada at all this year because she already had me stay home for easter, and this summer i stayed home for ramadan for no reason, and then she said it’s too late for me to get a plane ticket to go for thanksgiving, and she wants me to be at home for christmas_

_sombra: thanks! i hate her!_

_sombra: judge sym what’s the ruling_

_Symmetra: We haven’t even heard opposing arguments. And no evidence has been presented. I can’t reach a ruling._

_sombra: the justice system fails the common man once again_

 

On certain nights, Fareeha goes out onto the roof. It’s only for special occasions, usually when her mother is being how she is, or when Jesse is being how he is, or when Reinhardt is being how he is. Sometimes, she calls her father, and crosses her legs, and he doesn’t answer because he’s “a busy man.” That’s what her mother calls him, especially when he won’t answer her calls while Fareeha is in Canada with him, and she always says it in the tone.

Fareeha doesn’t call him, because she hears her mother on the phone with him down in the living room. They’re screaming. Whatever’s being said is indistinguishable, there’s just noise. It rings in Fareeha’s ear, makes her feel like there’s something heavy in her chest. And she feels swallowed up.

The anxiety creeps up from the pit of her lungs, scratching up into her throat and coming tumbling through her brain. She forgets to breathe, just clutches pointlessly at her chest and yanks hard at her shirt. It’s smothering. It’s so smothering, so containing. And she rips it off, baring herself to the quiet little neighborhood that’s all of a sudden so loud. Fareeha grabs at her roots, because it’s smothering.

A tree rustles in the wind, groaning in her ear over the sound of her mother yelling, her father’s imagined responses, and the sound of her anxieties screaming in her skull. She reaches for her phone, finds it buzzing and beeping in her pocket, and presses it to her ear. It just rattles her brain, and Fareeha’s thumb searches anxiously for the answer button.

“Hello?” Her voice doesn’t sound like her own. What does she sound like anymore? She sounds like she’s got a cold, but she usually is much more smooth in her speaking.

“Are you... Shirtless? On your roof?”

“Who is this?” She swallows the abnormalities of her speech, and churns out syllables with difficulty. “Wh-Who’s this? Who’s calling?”

“Hana Song, from across the street. Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re shirtless on your roof.”

“I am. Why- Um, why’d you call me?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Fareeha stares out past her yard, and spies the Song house. It’s pink, with brown trim and happy little windowboxes. There’s a figure, dark and shadowy in the window. It stares back.

“You’re watching me.”

“To make sure you didn’t fall.”

“Stop. Stop it!”

“What’s wrong with you? You’re going to break your neck!”

The phone buzzes shortly in her palm. Fareeha twists and squirms to get away from the feeling, but it happens again, and again, stuck to her fingers, the vibrations digging into the curves and paths of her hand. Hana is yelling, and Fareeha feels smothered. She feels her mother on her neck, her father at her side, and Jesse digging into her belly like a knife. They’re all there, they’re all speaking, and Hana is yelling, and the phone won’t stop.

 

_tracerr: someone come play me_

_tracerr: play me_

_tracerr: please play me_

_tracerr: please please_

_tracerr: omg i’m so bOOOOOOOOOORED_

_tracerr: everyone here is a loser_

_tracerr: loser loser loser_

_tracerr: L_

_tracerr: O_

_tracerr: S_

_tracerr: E_

_Mercy: Stop!!!!!!!!_

_Mercy: My phone has been buzzing so much!!!!_

_tracerr: then... play with me_

_Mercy: No!!_

_tracerr: R_

 

At which point Fareeha trips, she doesn’t quite recall. But she remembers standing, trying to find air to breathe, and walking a bit further down the roof. There’s a slant, and she knows to be careful, but forgets where her feet belong. Her cheek hits the shingles, her foot catches on the shirt, and she goes tumbling into the gutter, which breaks easily, and dumps her onto the ground below.

Something screams in her arm, her back feels like paper through a shredder, and when she breathes, there’s a sensation of burning in her side. Fareeha doesn’t move, not even when her mother comes out screaming about her roses, then when she starts to shout for her baby, and when she starts asking questions, Fareeha can’t find it in her to answer. Theres a hand on her back, and it stings so badly she yelps.

“No, I’ll call you back.” Ana is saying, “Fareeha fell, I don’t know- No, I wasn’t letting her onto the roof! I’ll text you, I’ll call you- No. No, I’ll talk to you later!”

Jesse comes from the house- Fareeha can hear his godforsaken spurs. He’s asking questions, and Ana is gently turning Fareeha onto her side, and it burns. She feels her ribs, and they’re bloodied, but not beneath the skin. Just over, and she feels the distinction enough.

“What the hell were you doing?” Ana spits, and she grabs Fareeha sharply by the wrist. She yanks, and Fareeha cries out. Theres something wrong, she can tell. “Fareeha Amari, what were you doing on the roof? 

“I don’t know. My arm is broken.” Fareeha whines, and her mother drops her arm.

“Of course it is. You ran off the roof!”

“I tripped.”

 

_Pharah: my arm is broke_

_Pharah: broke broke broke_

_mccree: Because you’re an idiot_

_Pharah: please be nice to me and get me more ice cream_

_Symmetra: Does it hurt?_

_Pharah: unforch_

_Symmetra: I’ve never broken a bone._

_mccree: one time pharah broke her foot bowling_

_mccree: and then she broke her thumb while she was making grilled cheese_

_mccree: and she had to get head stitches because she fell while running by a pool_

_Pharah: please get me more ice cream mom is disappointed in me_

_sombra: YOUR MOM IS AN ASS_

_Widowmaker: She’s justified._

_Pharah: GO HOME_

 

“Hi, Dad.” Fareeha shifts the pillow under her arm, groaning. Her ribs, bruised as they are, feel like someone’s lit the marrow on fire, leading to ebbing and flowing pain beneath the skin. She runs her fingertips gently over the site, the skin feeling taut and pained.

“Your mother says you broke your arm?”

“I did. Just a little bit.”

There’s a long, heavy sigh over the phone. It’s silent for a moment, and Fareeha can place her father in the leftmost corner of his porch. The cell service is best there, and it’s got a little scenic corner, with a papasan chair, a little rug, and a table with magazines stacked on it. He smokes out there too, and plays Candy Crush on his phone, always looking a little older than before.

“Mom isn’t letting me go for Christmas.”

“Too late for tickets.”

“It’s only October.”

Again, he sighs. Fareeha knows he isn’t smoking now, he tries his best not to smoke in front of her- to “preserve her innocence.” As though she’s never seen a grown man with a cigarette.

“It’s easier.”

“I like going to Canada.”

“It’ll be cold.”

“I know. I just want to see you.”

Outside the window, the dogs sniff through the grass. Ana replants her roses dutifully, and her husband sits attentively at her side. Their fat old Persian, Malik, watches from the windowsill, and Jesse makes faces at him through the window.

“Things are complicated, Fareeha.”

“Mom said that, too.”

Silence follows, as predicted. Fareeha examines the lime green wrapping of her cast, noting the signatures of her teammates and friends, along with a reluctant, cursive ‘S’ right before her elbow, tiny and sweet. It makes her sigh, which makes her father sigh, for a reason that’s not so romantic.

Neither of them speak. The wind rustles trees in the background, and Fareeha can tell that she’s on speaker. She likes her father’s little house, deep in the Canadian wilderness, all wooden and sleek. There’s something so gorgeous about it, all the polished and pretty wood. For another handful of seconds, the clock ticks idly on the wall behind Fareeha, and the men on TV speak, unaware they’ve been muted.

“I should go. Dog needs a walk.” He says.

“You could just let her out.”

“I like to walk with her. I’ll see you sometime, Fareeha.”

It’s never complicated. As a child, Fareeha had known it to be that Mom didn’t like Dad, Mom was across the world, and Fareeha was in a tiny, ugly apartment in Toronto, without a memory of her mother’s face. Dad was getting tired. Dad was dealing with a screaming baby that didn’t know she even had a mother. Dad was lying. Mom was getting frustrated. It was always step-by-step, no room for complexities in the utter simplicity of divorce.

Child psychologists had tried to force the intricacies onto her, as though they were disturbed by the lack of childhood angst in Fareeha’s behaviors. But it was simple. Her mother was military, her father was civilian, they were pulling on a rope from both ends, and it was fraying. They were never together for more than weeks at a time, and it was spent trying to teach Fareeha that she was not the product of a single parent.

She doesn’t notice that the phone is hung up. In fact, she doesn’t notice that it’s been sitting silently at her ear for a minute, and that the only sound occupying the room is Malik’s tail swishing up against the stucco.

“Hey.” Jesse’s spurs are jingling. Fareeha had wished the Western phase would end before he hit fifteen, but almost eighteen, and he’s still going strong. “What’re you moping around in here for?”

“I was talking to my dad.”

“Are you going to Canada?”

“I don’t think he wants me to come.”

Jesse scoops Malik up off the windowsill. He chirps irritatedly, but is quickly silenced with a scratch under the chin. Settling into the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room, Jesse grumbles, and Malik makes his own sounds back.

“Are you going to your dad’s this weekend?” Fareeha straightens herself up with a wince. The ice tucked beneath her bra strap struggles free, and the elastic snaps back, causing her to grip the bruised spot. “Oh, fuck.”

“Stay lying down,” Jesse orders, and Fareeha slides miserably down onto the couch cushions again. “I think so, yeah. He’s got something going on.”

“Something?”

“Something.”

Fareeha huffs, and shifts the ice back over her side. It barely helps, just makes it feel more numb for a moment. Malik chirps, and squirms free of Jesse’s hold. He climbs up onto the arm of the chair, and jumps nimbly over to the couch. Gently, he pads down beside Fareeha’s face, and licks politely at her nose.

“Hey, Malik.” She teases.

He meows back to her.

“Thank you.”

The buzzing from Fareeha’s phone startles them both, and causes Malik’s paw to slide out of control. He falls onto Fareeha’s face, and extends his claws, scratching the barely scabbed over marring on her cheek. Instinctively, her hand shoots out, and knocks the cat over onto the floor. In response, Malik hisses, wiggling under the couch.

“Damn,” Jesse whistles low, and Fareeha grumbles.

She lifts her phone near to her face, squinting at the text.

 

_[1:43PM] satyaa: How is your arm? Will you still be in need of my help writing your essay for English?_

 

Maybe, Fareeha had been a bit selfish in requesting Satya’s help at tutoring. She was an acceptable student, as she’d need to be to convince her mother that the army wasn’t just a back-up plan for her. Calling the cast on her arm an encumbrance to her ability to type might’ve been a bit of the stretch, but an ache still pulsed through her radius each time she tried to tap in a few letters.

 

_its kinda better rn but i dont think itll be all good bfor the deadline. can u just help me finish the last paragraph? + im kinda directionless with it rn_

 

She rubbed her head against the pillow, hitting send. In the hall, the door creaked open while Ana chatted quietly to her husband.

“I just don’t understand her, Reinhardt,” Ana murmurs. “Fareeha and her grand schemes. I bet she was doing something up there- like she always is. Always doing _something_.”

Of course, Ana would see it as some more sinister scheme. It was only natural for her to be so skeptical of her child, as she always was. Most parents, Fareeha could figure, were inquisitive and naturally suspicious of their children. But only Ana would believe all others before her daughter, and would assume she had hatched some nutty plan- rather than just be seeking out solace on the rooftop.

“Fareeha,” She calls, staring into the living room with a mournful expression. “Have you been icing?”

“Yes.”

“Let me get you the heating pad, then.”

Ana slips off into the hall, and Reinhardt lumbers after her. Fareeha can’t remember when they first met. The overlap between her mother’s marriage to her father and her relationship with Reinhardt is so narrow, there’s little to distinguish the separation in timelines.

“She’s pissed.” Jesse muses. Fareeha nods, even if Jesse can’t see her.

 

_[1:46PM] satyaa: What is your paper about again? Refresh my memory._

 

Fareeha struggles to put her hands properly around her phone, finally getting poised perfectly to text.

 

_the effects of divorce on young children_

 

It sits heavy on her fingertips. She adds a second message, a kind of amendment.

 

_kind of boring_

 

The reply comes in quickly.

 

_[1:49PM] satyaa: I think that’s interesting, actually. Your parents are divorced, right? My parents split up when I was a baby. I’ve never thought about how it effected me._

 

Ana comes in the living room, heating pad in one hand, the other running through her hair. It’s greying faster than ever, leaving only little tiny flecks of black in a sea of silver. Fareeha thinks she might be somewhat to blame for the color.

“Here, keep it on for about ten minutes. If it starts to hurt, take it off, and turn it low.” She plugs it into the outlet, then presses it to Fareeha’s ribs. The pressure makes her whine, but Ana keeps a steady hand. “You’ll need to keep holding it. Does it hurt bad enough to make you cry?”

“No.”

“Alright, then.”

She releases it, and guides Fareeha’s hand to the pad. The phone dings, and Ana glances down at the message.

 

_[1:52PM] satyaa: I’m sorry. I realize divorce may be a touchy subject. Apologies if I offended._

 

“What’re you talking about with her?” Ana asks. Suspicion sits in the back of her throat.

“Paper I’m writing.”

“About what?”

“Divorce.”

Ana breathes deeply. She stares at Fareeha with the heating pad to her ribs, then looks to Jesse, sitting in the armchair and trying to pretend he’s nonexistent. The phone buzzes once again.

 

_[1:53PM] Dad: Love you, Fareeha. How about I try to see you for Easter?_

 

There’s a deeper sigh, one that comes from beyond the lungs, beyond the diaphragm, that carves out it’s home in the belly of the beast. It’s one of the sighs that hurts, that signals tears to come and fall soon. Fareeha hates to hear her mother sigh like that, and yet, she does. Ana nods, almost as though she agrees, and steps to the side of the couch.

“You want to go to Canada for Christmas?” She asks, and Fareeha nods. There’s a moment of painful silence between the both of them.

“I thought you would’ve figured that out.” Fareeha crosses her arms, though the pain in her wrist promptly has them at her side again.

Ana’s lips go tight, like a little line. She doesn’t say anything for a good while- just stands there and looks pensively at Fareeha, as though she’s committed some type of mortal sin. The silence is breached by the dogs scratching eagerly at the front door.

“Let me check with Delta, how about that?” Ana asks.

She doesn’t wait for the answer, just goes to let the dogs in. The littler of the two, Jesse’s tiny mutt, looking more like a rat than a dog, goes straight to his lap. It whimpers, digging it’s nose into his armpit and squealing. Their Newfoundland comes crashing through the archway, barking to announce his presence, before settling beside the couch. He presses his nose to the back of Fareeha’s hand, then gives her a gentle kiss to the metacarpals.

“Hey, buddy.”


End file.
